


Stoicism is Overrated

by Jen (ConsultingWriters)



Series: The Earpiece Collection [2]
Category: James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Angst, Bond's POV, Hurt, M/M, god help me, heed warnings, this sprung from my fevered imagination yesterday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The earpieces keep them linked; Bond can only listen and speak pointless words to Q, as a man with a vendetta takes out his anger.</p><p>  <i>Bond hears the slap, and hisses with anger. Q doesn’t make a noise, his defiance painted in silence. “Q, which part of ‘don’t piss them off’ is escaping you?” Bond asks, worry causing a sharp screech, a mistuned wailing violin.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stoicism is Overrated

**Author's Note:**

> I got attacked by a plot bunny who wanted me to have lots of 00Q, but over earpieces. "By Proxy" is pure 00Q porn. This? This, I have no excuse for. It's all linked conceptually; there will be more of this series to follow, with slightly less triggering subject matters.
> 
> On that subject - heed warnings. Please.

Bond wakes at gone midnight with a voice in his ear. It is definitely one he likes to have in his ear at gone midnight, but it isn’t necessarily what he had expected.

“ _Bond, wake up_ ,” the voice says insistently, until Bond gives an irate groan, and sits up in bed. He reaches for his shirt, pulling it on; his microphone, the link to Q, is laced into the collar. He’s supposed to be wearing some form of microphone constantly as a security measure, but he does often forget - not to mention that sleeping in a shirt gets a little boring after a point. _  
_

Q never bothers with mundane things like mobile phones any more. Given that Bond is constantly linked up, he just accesses the earpiece and starts talking until Bond gives in and listens. It is a good system, barring the times when Eve hijacks the connection for ‘fun’. "Yes, Q?" he answers, voice sharp, avoiding the blurriness that can come with being woken unexpectedly.

“ _Superb. Contact established, Bond is en route. Bond, I have been kidnapped,_ ” Q tells him, doubtless talking to more people than just him. Q linked himself up to every device under the sun; these days, he merely need press an SOS into the arm of his glasses to be linked to MI6, and directly to Bond. The microphone was laced into the thick plastic of his glasses, the earpiece the same prototype as Bond uses.

“What?!” Bond snaps, his movements becoming faster; he needs to reach MI6, to be copied into more reliable updates, to assist in tracking down his Quartermaster. Kidnaps are precarious situations. Bond has training, and Q has experience, but it never makes the experience any more pleasant.

“ _I have contacted MI6, but I wished to contact you in addition_ ,” Q explains, entirely calm. “ _I cannot confirm my location. Q-branch is tracing me via my earpiece set, but the signal from them is weak._ ”

Bond stands quickly, buttoning the shirt and reaching for underwear; any tiredness he may have felt has long since dissipated. “Received and understood. I’m going to MI6 now, we will need a full extraction team, and we will find you.”

“ _Excellent. Please keep me updated_ ,” Q asks, valiantly cloaking over the inevitable fear that is associated with kidnap in favour of trusting in the abilities of MI6, of James Bond. “ _I will communicate if I am able_.”

Q falls silent. Bond stills, listening to the gentle click of a door opening. He imagines that Q is bound; he can only guess at how he reached his glasses to form his SOS. Questions for another time. Bond is out the door and running towards MI6 in an instant, his flat mere minutes away from headquarters, trying to listen as best he can.

“You will need to stall for time, I’d like to get you back in one piece,” Bond tells Q, feet hitting the ground rhythmically as he runs, annoyed that Q can no longer reply. He would have liked a moment longer.

 _“The little Quartermaster,”_ a voice purrs; Bond feels a stab of objection at the tone, the condescension and ingratiating nature. It is too sweet, too contrived. It is also Irish, which is promising; a defined accent is simpler to trace. “ _The toyboy of Agent 007._ ”

Bond can literally see the raised eyebrow, the dry tone, precise intonation. "I'm hardly a toyboy, contrary to popular opinion."

“Try not to piss them off,” Bond advises as he pulls in regular breaths, his speed increasing incrementally. He can feel a rush of anger at Q being spoken to that way, treated like that. Q is far more than a simple, dull acquisition. He is so very far removed from the dull beings Bond once knew.

The returning voice is almost dispassionate, a surprising degree of control. “ _You yourself are very little, but he appears fond of you, and that is precisely why we are here._   Bond’s eyebrow crooks. They have found Q because of Bond’s relationship with him. It would be far from the first time somebody has been hurt because of him _Vesper’s eyes stare blankly and Bond swears the sky is splitting_ but he is still somewhat surprised. Tracking down Q requires a good deal of effort, abducting him verges on the impossible.

“ _Superb, this is a petty vendetta against a double-oh agent,_ ” Q drawls. “ _How mundane_.”

Bond hears the slap, and hisses with anger. Q doesn’t make a noise, his defiance painted in silence. “Q, which part of ‘don’t piss them off’ is escaping you?” Bond asks, worry causing a sharp screech, a mistuned wailing violin.

“ _Where am I, out of interest?_ ” Q asks impassively. Bond cannot see the eye roll from Q’s captors.

There is pure silence, incomparably unnerving. This spans a full minute, long enough for Bond to reach MI6, punch in his access codes, and fly through corridors that smell of a warped type of home, towards Q-branch.

“Q, are you still alive over there?” Bond asks conversationally, slowing as he reaches Q-branch, seeing the assembled masses, all of whom are tracing motions and intonations spanning counties, cities.

Just over a minute of complete silence, just the rasp of breath in counterpoint, and everybody is listening.

Tanner nods a sharp greeting, slightly pale, tension drawn across him in thin lines.

A sharp hiss splits quiet. “ _Touch me, and I will personally take pleasure in breaking every one of your fingers,_ ” Q tells them, and Bond could almost laugh. He would. Bond had been kidnapped a few months previously, and afterwards, Q had taken great joy in the deconstruction of each of his captor’s anatomy. A side Bond had never seen before, and oddly, didn’t quite dislike.

Bond can hear the telltale movements of one other person, perhaps, the extra whispers of breath forming texture, layers of sound. The voice is recognisable, irritatingly, but Bond cannot place it. “ _You are young, for a Quartermaster_ ,” the man tells Q. 

Of course, Q could never resist a comeback when it references his age: “ _I’ve never heard that before,_ ” Q retorts, and there is another slap. This one takes a longer moment to recover from, Q whistling an exhale as he handles himself, returns to sitting. Q-branch are lethally silent.

The silence remains, a steady thrumming, and Bond wishes he could see, just to establish motive because this is entering dangerous territories, and he doesn't like it. “ _I can understand Bond’s attraction_ ,” the man tells Q. Bond feels an unfamiliar clot of fear form in his throat; it is an unnerving tone, and god _damnit_ he knows that voice.

“ _I fail to see how it is of consequence_ ,” Q comments; breath snatches suddenly, but there is no sound. A feint. Q is growing frightened. Unsurprisingly, but nonetheless unpleasant. “ _ **Do not touch me**_.”

Footsteps click lightly, but there is no change in the distance of the voice; a second presence, presumably. Important data. Bond should have been listening out for it sooner. “ _I am attempting to teach a lesson, in this,_ ” the man explains lightly. “ _Bond takes from others. I now will take from him_.”

Q's response is instantaneous, and unsurprising: “ _He is a double-oh agent, genuine affection would be idiotic at best_ ,” he says simply, and Bond does not flinch; they are playing on a relationship, and removing that tie could be what protects him.

“ _We shall see_ ,” the man breathes, and Q is suddenly hyperventilating.

“Q, what in the hell is going on?!” Bond snaps at him, staring at monitors with sod all idea what he’s looking for. He watches the translated intonations of volume play across a screen, the pace visibly increased, everything of it suddenly tripling in speed, in immediacy.

He understands with a rush of clarity that makes him feel faintly nauseous.

Sex is his weapon, it has forever been thus. He has used and discarded women across his career, for effect, out of necessity. He is very good at his job. He knows pressure points, and emotion is the most easily exploitable; sometimes it’s for enjoyment, but his sexual exploits are often more intelligent than that. Sex changes things. Sex with the right person, in the right time – alliances die, resolve crumbles. Jealousy and possessiveness and hurt conspire to cause chaos.

 Q’s breath is so quick, too quick, and Bond is fairly certain he knows why. “ _Don’t look so distressed, little Q. Bond does this the entire time, after all_ ,” the man purrs.

“ _I am relatively certain Bond has never sexually assaulted anybody,_ ” Q replies coldly.

Q-branch collectively stalls in their motions, Tanner’s eyes widening faintly. Bond’s fists clench. He will destroy them for this.

“Q, you have to stay alive,” Bond tells him, voice level. “We are on our way.”

There is no answer. “ _Has he not?_ ” the man asks conversationally, doing something that makes Q's breathing stall for an instant. “ _I suppose, not like this. But he has taken advantage of vulnerable people, has used those who needed protection_.”

No hint of a tremor: " _Bullshit._ "

“ _That Skyfall incident. A young whore, used for sex since she was a child. Bond had her regardless, for no reason other than to inspire jealousy, and because he wanted it_ ,” the man tells him flatly. Bond feels a shudder. The bastard is right, and that makes him incredibly uncomfortable. “ _I would bet he can’t remember her name_.”

"Severine,” Bond says on instinct, determined to redeem himself in some way or another. He hopes Q smiles slightly; he is not a complete disappointment, he is adamant that he will not be so.

Q's voice is very soft, very controlled. “ _Who was she to you?_ ” he asks, not talking about Severine. Bond wishes once again that he could have just one word from Q, something to soothe the fact that he is beginning to feel remarkably fragile. This is his fault. “ _I am sorry. I am sorry he was so easily able to seduce her, and that your desperate need to have some form of revenge is being exacted in such a ridiculous way._ ”

“ _Ridiculous?_ ” the man repeats with a light, mocking laugh. “ _Once again, my dear boy, we shall see._ ”

His voice is riddled with tension, almost snapping: “ _Stop it, **stop it**_."

“ _She was my wife_ ,” the man whispers, too loud; his mouth is by Q’s microphone, near his face, then.

Bond continues to shuffle through memory as frantically as he is able. “Abigail,” Bond says suddenly. “Abigail O’Brian. The man is Lee O’Brian, an arms dealer. My mission was to take down his associate, his brother, Michael O’Brian, and take down their little business before it expanded onto British soil. Abi… she died, his brother killed her, before I got to him.”

Tanner looks immensely relieved; they finally have something to work from. “Trace everything, I need everything on that mission brief,” he says quickly. “Call M, this is no longer an internal issue, we need to assess whether this is a wider threat to British security given the arms issue.”

“Q, we’re getting closer,” Bond tells Q, hoping to communicate some form of comfort. “Stay alive. Keep stalling, and make sure they don’t kill you.”

Bond listens to Q fight back, with all the force he can muster. Q is not an idiot, he knows he will not win, but whatever they are doing is enough to override even logic, even common sense, even the soothe of Bond’s words in his ears. “Q, Q listen to me. You’re alright,” Bond lies fluently, urgently. He can hear a pained gasp.

Q is suddenly incredibly quiet.

Bond hears too-familiar sounds.

“Take him off speaker,” Bond says abruptly, leaning over the desk of a Q-branch worker who stares at him like he is an alien, like some type of demon. Bond can see the reflection of his face in the too-bright screen, and he looks insane, eyes blazing, jaw set, frantic and bordering on hysteria.

Tanner has enough mercy to look apologetic. “We need to know what is said, whether we can glean anything on location..."

Bond whips around with explosive fury. “Then keep tapped in Tanner, but take him _off_ speaker,” he reiterates, with breathtaking force. Tanner’s eyebrows crease, and he waves at a Q-branch underling; the zip of O’Brian’s trousers is audible only to a select few.

Bond is frightened.

He cannot alter this, he cannot do anything more than what is already being done. He is not accustomed to being impotent. He would gratefully storm into action if he had any idea of _where he was storming_.

Q's voice has grown unsteady, slightly tremulous: “ _I can assure you that this will end badly for you_.” 

Bond knots a hand through his own hair as he picks the words, knows they will be nothing Q can accept. “Q, don’t fight. I’m sorry. O’Brian is unstable and well trained, you can’t win, and he could easily kill you – your priority here is to stay alive. Nothing else matters,” Bond tells him, voice tight. He has never been at this end of things before, trying to convince a kidnapped agent that fighting is the worst course. If he had been told the same thing, he would have ignored it rather than let anything like this happen.

“ _Is there anything I can negotiate with?_ ” Q asks O’Brian, his voice intensely sharp, almost shattering.

“ _No_ ,” is returned without hesitation, and Q continues to breathe. Bond listens to it, some confirmation that Q is still alive, that he can – and he will – survive this.

Bond knows sex so intimately, too intimately. He listens to the familiar depress of a pump – in turn noting his gratitude that the fucker is using lubrication – and the sudden, light cry.

He consoles himself with thoughts of just what he will do to O’Brian when he finds him.

One of Q’s young protégées abruptly speaks, voice urgent and quick: "We have a fix."

“Q, we’ve found you, we’re on our way,” Bond tells him quickly, hoping that Q is listening. He turns on Tanner. “Where?”

“Surrey. We have a team we can call on, it’ll be half an hour or so,” Tanner tells him, completely white. “Bond, there is nothing you can do, trying to get you there will take too long. Keep talking to him.”

Bond tries to keep his voice level, tries to inject some humour in a way that could reach his lover, take him away. “Q, you’re in Surrey. Of all bloody places, you ended up in  _Surrey."_  

“ _Please stop_ ,” Q whispers, and Bond falls silent, relatively certain Q is speaking to him. He closes his eyes, internally flinching when he hears the unmistakeable sound of flesh on flesh, and Q breath finally _does_ shatter.

Bond listens in silence. He can feel the weight of so many eyes. They know. They all know what is happening, and the extraction team cannot move any faster. As long as this is happening, Q is not dead, and that is the only consolation he has.

Q starts crying at some stage.

Bond can hear the irregularity, the clawing for oxygen, the clink of cuffs as they move with every thrust. O’Brian doesn’t speak, doesn’t taunt, which is a subtle mercy that Bond is intensely grateful for.

There is a more violent noise, and Q quite abruptly screams.

Bond sees Tanner gag slightly out of the corner of his eye. Screens are running, dots and flashes and words and numbers, and images. They know where he is, they just need to reach him.

“ _We need to move out, they’re on their way_ ,” the second voice, the other man Bond had heard in the room with him, mutters. Bond doesn’t recognise this new voice. It is hardly relevant.

The movements become louder, more obvious, and quicker. Q cries out at each thrust, pleading tonelessly between movements in a disconnected manner that makes Bond think he may be unaware of doing so.

O’Brian’s groan is obscene, and right next to Q’s microphone. Bond is clenching his fists so hard he fears the skin of his knuckles will simply snap.

“ _Tell Bond we said hello, won’t you,_ ” O’Brian says simply; Bond’s throat closes, lividly angry. The zip, the rustle of clothing, the tinkle of coins as they fall onto Q’s exposed belly. “ _The plaything of greater men._ ”

Bond listens to the whisper to air: “ _I am so much more than that."_  A thump, a sickening snap, and Q screams brokenly. The money falls onto the floor as he flinches away.

“ _Goodbye, Q._ ”

Bond listens to them leave, releasing a caught breath when it becomes evident that they aren’t going to kill him. Q is alive. He is entirely and brilliantly alive.

“Q?” Bond asks. He can hear his own weakness in how he says that single letter. He had allowed himself close to Q, and Q, like everybody, was being destroyed by him. He caused chaos, when he allowed himself reciprocity.

There is no response, merely the sound of hiccupping sobs. Q gives himself a moment, several moments. He stills, and calms. Tension makes Bond’s body vibrate, waiting for a response, _any_ response.

“ _I need a medical team, extraction unit can track hostiles,_ ” Q eventually rasps. “ _Targets left the building via east-facing door. First is known target, Lee O’Brian, approximately six foot, bald, wearing black trousers, red check shirt. Second is unknown target, wearing jeans and brown leather jacket, thinning blonde hair, approximately five eleven._ ”

“Received,” Bond replies, cloaking his relief; he was alright, he was going to be alright. “Medical team will be there momentarily, is there anything beyond the obvious?”

“ _Broken rib. Narcotics were used, I’d like a drug panel done while it’s still in my system_ ,” Q tells him. “ _I hope not too many people were party to that_.”

“They weren’t,” Bond assures him. “You will be moved to hospital obviously, I’ll be there once O’Brian is neutralised.”

Q's voice is sharp. “ _You will let me kill him_ ,” he tells Bond, and Bond cannot, will not, object. Q deserves that much. All he will ask – when he is reunited with Q – is that he is allowed to help. He will happily allow Q the kill, with pleasure, but he also intends for the man to be alive a long while before that point.

There is no other answer: "Yes."

“ _James,_ ” Q whispers, and Bond’s throat closes; Q never calls him by his first name. He is coming. Bond will come, and they will patch this up as best they can, as they always do when hell comes knocking.

“I’m coming,” Bond tells him simply, and it is enough.

It has to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a hideous person who enjoys torturing good characters. Thank you for reading!!
> 
> If you have any prompts of any variant that can slip into this series, please let me know. As this may illustrate, I have no boundaries in terms of what I'll do to my favourite characters. So prompt away!
> 
> Any comments/crit are sublime.


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